Pulp Fiction
Skittering caught my eye, caught by the wind, twirling. A mound of dirty paper, its bottom soggy, destined for obscurity as water and gravity dragged it into the muddy pool. I reached for a stick, swung it forward and corralled the missive towards me. The flooded townsfolk had lost everything. Perhaps this was a document of importance. Gingerly pinching a corner and holding it at arm’s length, I made my way home, my thoughts focused on restoration, the location of tweezers and paper towel.
By afternoon, and a lengthy dose of warm sunshine – how obtuse weather can be, I thought – the paper was damp but pliable. Discerning handwriting, a letter perhaps, my imagination galloped. Grasping the tweezers, I steadied my hand, unfolding and straightening the limp pages. Despite every precaution, fibres separated but not enough to destroy it. Faded ink, turning the page bluish white, wound horizontal in elaborate swirls. I squinted, orientating myself to style and lexicon.
Dear Eliza,
I can’t believe what you’ve done. I married you to give you your freedom, because I believed being transported to Australia was too big a punishment. You took advantage of me, persuading me you were a good person and not a thief and liar. What happened last week proves the courts were right. I can’t live in the same house as you. You will have to leave.
Richard
I re-read the words, angry, hurt. What had Eliza done to make Richard so angry? Did they reconcile or was their relationship doomed? More than that, the letter was of historic importance. A colonial treasure, more than a century old. I laid it gently in a drawer and made my way back to the street and deluge. An onerous sense of responsibility pressed on my shoulders. I needed to find the owner.
A lone, weathered Queenslander beckoned, mere metres from the floodway. The front yard stank of rot, a smell that prickled the nose, incongruous to a suburban home. Sodden furniture, tinged with brown, along with every kind of household item, lay in haphazard piles. Closer inspection revealed possessions of age and quality, caked in sludge from the bowels of the river, unfit, stained, contaminated. As I sensed the unwelcome sensation of warm, wet sediment oozing over my thongs, a shout rose in the air.
A woman appeared, equally stained, her hair matted, dress striped by muddy hands. ‘Are you from the insurance?’ she demanded.
‘No, sorry.’ My mission melted away in the presence of her despair.
‘Well?’
‘I found something that might belong to you. In the puddle, over there.’ I pointed.
She looked at my empty hands, eyes bulging.
‘I took it home to dry. A letter. Old, I think. Sent to a woman called Eliza, written by Richard. Are they ancestors of yours, by any chance?’
She stared. ‘A letter? D’you think I give a flying whatsit about a letter? With all this … this mess? I thought you were from the insurance. Someone who could actually help.’ She folded her arms. ‘I haven’t got time for this.’ Her voice lowered, growing weary.
‘No, I can see that. Sorry. I thought it might be important. Something valuable. Something you’d want returned.’
She backed up and slumped on the wooden steps leading to the veranda. I could see the waterline just below the first-floor window.
‘I could come back. My place is on higher ground. You know … saved.’ I lowered my eyes. Survivor guilt.
‘Help, you mean?’
‘I’ll change, put on some wellies.’
‘You’ve got to work hard.’ She stood, thrust a hand forward, then retracted it. ‘Sheila.’
‘Elfie.’
She frowned.
‘Short for Elphine.’
Her eyes rolled. ‘Well, let’s see what you’re made of. Something stronger than your name suggests, let’s hope.’
Sheila and I became friends as we worked to cleanse her home and possessions. When I returned in suitable clothes, she pushed a pair of new, yellow rubber gloves in my hand.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘The council brought them round. Can’t be doing with them, m’self.’
My job was to wash crockery, cutlery and glassware; wipe down furniture and books. Most precious of all, were Sheila’s photo albums. I repeated the process I’d used with the letter, removing them from behind damp plastic, placing them in paper layers. When the kitchen roll ran out, I brought a new three-pack, the next day.
‘That’s Luke and Jordan, my boys. Gone now. One’s in Sydney, one’s overseas.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I began.
‘Whatever for? Making lives for themselves. Getting on with it.’ She turned swiftly, shielding her damp eyes.
After each hour, we’d reconvene to go through the cleaned items. Shelia was ruthless. Anything chipped, cracked or likely to grow mould had to go.
‘The universe could have given me an easier way to declutter,’ she grumbled.
The mystery of the letter took second place to my new role. We drank from water bottles and savoured the coffee I brought each morning, the cups and flask pristine. I got used to the smell and dirt, remembering the hot shower and clean towels that awaited me at home. Sheila would make subtle digs about my upbringing with two hippies. She never stopped chuckling about my name. We returned to the subject of the letter one day, but unable to shed further light on relatives called Eliza or Richard, Sheila waved the subject away in favour of practical concerns and needs. When builders arrived to deal with rotten timbers and plasterwork, I was no longer required but promised to visit regularly.
By now, the creeks had subsided. My lucky find drew my attention once again, prompting me to phone the museum for advice. When an enthusiastic expert in colonial artifacts offered me an appointment, I made the journey into the city. In a darkened room, under strong lights and a huge magnifying glass, the letter produced an answer, the outcome making both mine and the kind curator’s lip’s twitch. I couldn’t wait to tell Sheila and took the chance of calling in on my way home. I pulled up to her house just as the last tradesperson backed his ute out of the driveway.
I held up the page, protected inside a plastic sleeve.
‘Remember this? The letter I found in the puddle? I’ve been to the museum and got news.’
‘Well, come in.’
I mounted the steps and took a seat in a veranda chair, the legs now cleansed of their mud casts.
‘It is yours.’ I passed it over. ‘It was written by one of your relatives.’
She took it, eyebrows pinching together. ‘Talk sense, Elfie. Don’t know what you’re on about. How do the museum people know about my family? I’ve never trusted the bloody internet. No privacy.’
I smiled. ‘Turn it over. I was so caught up with the words on the front, I didn’t see these other marks. Can you see?’
She squinted at the faintest ink marks made, as I now knew, with a biro on a sheet of contemporary printer paper. With effort, she deciphered the words, speaking slowly. ‘Well … done … Jordan … B+. Good God! A school project?’
I nodded. ‘Pulp fiction,’ I said.
She rubbed a finger over his name. ‘My Jordan,’ she whispered, not bothering to hide the tears in her eyes.